


Safer Ways

by aguantare



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 22:06:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: “Do you need this?” he asks after a few long seconds. James shrugs; he’s not really sure what he needs, but he sure as hell doesn’t need someone searching him for answers that he doesn’t have. Not now.





	Safer Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I have no excuse for this, other than I'm sort of in a job-induced writer's block that's keeping me from continuing my other Football RPF series. So I wrote this instead, because apparently once in a great while the PWP/smut corner of my brain decides to come out and play.
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me.

He’s tall and well-built and dark-haired and not someone James would ever approach in a proper state of mind, let alone press up against and reply, “Not really thirsty for a drink” when he asks if he can buy James a drink.

But James is a little drunk and a lot hurt, and that makes him restless and reckless, and the small, dimly lit bathroom in the back of a San Francisco nightclub at 2 AM seems like as good a place as any to take all of that, mix it with a good-looking stranger who looks like he knows how to handle himself, and let the chips fall where they may.

James doesn’t wait for an invitation, just gets down on his knees and guides the other man’s cock into his mouth, takes him as deep as he can and then forces it just a little bit further. His gag reflex tries to kick in but he fights it down; after all, if this is all he’s good at, might as well own it, right?

Hands slide into his hair, and he relaxes, waiting for the other man to guide him, show him what he wants, fuck his mouth or do whatever else it is that made him follow James in here in the first place.

It’s only then that he becomes aware of the other man’s voice, far too gentle and controlled for the circumstances.

“Hey,” he’s saying, “Hey, easy, easy.”

James isn’t sure what to do with that, so he takes him in again, swallows him to the root, and it’s a little hard to breathe and his throat constricts, but he shoves down the urge with ruthless abandon. He deserves this, deserves it for being so stupidly naïve. 

“Hey.” The other man’s voice is firmer now and next thing James knows, he’s being pushed back, lightly, but even so, it feels unquestionably like a(nother) rejection. He stumbles a little in his haste to get to his feet, shame already flaring on his cheeks, ugly and obvious. 

“Hey.” A hand on his arm to stop him. “Just. Slow down, yeah?”

James swallows, tries to meet the other man’s eyes, but can’t quite do it. The other man takes a few moments to redress and recover his modesty. The silence feels suffocating, but before James can make a break for it, the man extends a hand to touch James’ face, swipes his thumb over the corner of his mouth, then across his cheek. Belatedly, James understands that he’s wiping away tears. He hadn’t even realized he was crying. 

“Are you okay?” the other man asks, dropping his hand back to his side.

“Fine,” James replies, almost choked with embarrassment, “I’m—I’ll go.”

The other man stops him again, a hand on his arm, not grabbing or holding, just—there. His brow is furrowed, just a little.

“Do you need this?” he asks after a few long seconds. James shrugs; he’s not really sure what he needs, but he sure as hell doesn’t need someone searching him for answers that he doesn’t have. Not now. He starts to pull away. The other man moves his hand to James’ chest, but the touch is so light James can’t even feel it through his shirt. 

“I’ll,” the other man says. Stops, restarts, “I can. But if I go too far—“ He touches the necklace around James’ neck, taps his fingers lightly against the silver cross. “—Like this, yeah?”

James nods.

“Show me,” the other man says. James reaches up and imitates the gesture, touching his fingers to the cross. 

“Okay.”

The other man moves his hand to James’ shoulder then, applies gentle, wordless pressure, and James obeys. 

-

When it’s all said and done, James’ knees are bruised and his throat aches and his jaw is sore, but he feels calmer. The other man coaxes him to his feet, leans him back against the wall, drops one hand to the edge of James’ jeans. 

“Do you want…?” he asks, fingertips warm against James’ skin. James hesitates, then shakes his head. 

The other man eyes him for a long second, like he’s scrutinizing him. 

“You know,” he says eventually, withdrawing his hand, “There are safer ways to hurt.”

James flushes, which is kind of stupid given what they just did, but he feels suddenly exposed in a way that has nothing to do with clothing or lack thereof. 

So he leaves; he can’t remember if he says ‘yeah,’ or ‘thanks,’ or maybe nothing at all. 

It isn’t until later that night, when he shucks off his jeans to finally go to bed, that he discovers the business card tucked into one of the front pockets. It has the name of a law office on the front, one of the big corporate ones downtown. And on the back, in discrete, understated letters is a name and a phone number.

-

Two weeks later, he gets home from work. Digs his phone out of his pocket. Pulls the card from his wallet. Dials the number. Turns the card over in his hands as the phone rings in his ear. Three, four rings, and then someone on the other end picks up.

“This is Cris.”

James hesitates. Thinks about hanging up. 

“Hello?”

James closes his eyes, takes a breath.

“You said—you said there are safer ways,” he says haltingly. 

A pause on the other end. James thinks about hanging up again. 

“There are,” Cris replies after a second or two. His voice is gentle with recognition. “Do you want—“

“Yes,” James blurts, before Cris can even finish the question. 

Cris doesn’t mock him for it, doesn’t laugh at him or anything like that. 

Instead he just says, “Okay.”

-

(And it is. Okay, that is. It might even be more than okay.)


End file.
